“Rejoice at every death,” suggested the Starbridge catechism. Thanakar turned his face away. He too was from a proud family. “Were they burned?” he asked. The mob had passed, the street was quiet.

“Yes. N-no. I’ve said enough,” stammered the curate. “A man must be careful, since Lord Chrism . . .”

“Damn you, what proclamation?”

The curate opened his mouth, astonished. “Y-you haven’t heard?”

“I’ve been with the army.”

“Even so.” He seemed uncertain, then he spoke. “The bishop’s secretary . . . was . . . used to be . . .

Chrism Demiurge. Lord Chrism, now. He’s taken a new title, while confirmation is still coming from the emperor. The bishop’s been deposed.”

“What?”

“She’s to be burned, they say. Witchcraft.” The curate bent close. “They say she has a p-penis growing between her breasts. A man’s p-penis. Here.” He touched Thanakar’s chest. He was an alcoholic. He wore too much perfume not to be covering up some other odor. Thanakar turned away, nauseated. “He calls himself Lord Chrism,” said the curate, bringing his face still closer. “He’s searching for a wide appeal. Some of the adventists are already calling him a g-god.”

Thanakar laughed. “That’s heresy,” he said.

“He’s not responsible for what they say. In a weaker man, yes, I suppose it might be heresy. But he is a strong man. He has the council behind him.” He looked away. “It makes no difference. He was always the power in this city. It’s just a matter of a name.”

“And an execution.”

“Yes. P-poor child. A p-penis.”

They were standing in the shelter of an archway. The soldiers of Thanakar’s guard had waited patiently in the rain, but as the two men talked, ragged men with rifles had started gathering at the bottom of their street, carrying some flag, chanting some slogan. A second-lieutenant of the purge had waited patiently at Thanakar’s side, nursing a cigarette. Now he came up and saluted. “My lords,” he said, “we can’t stop here. It’s too dangerous. It’s the festival tonight, in honor of the new saint. Starting at midnight. We’ll have to be at Wanhope Prison before then, sir.”

“B-but we are on a holy errand,” said the curate. “In Lord Chrism’s name.”

“Tell it to them.” The lieutenant jerked his thumb back down the street. The crowd had gotten closer.

One of their banners unfurled next to a streetlight. “October 47th,” it read. “A Festival of Faith.” Red letters on a white ground, and underneath, a phoenix rising from a nest of flame. In front of the crowd, a man and woman danced drunkenly, waving a jug. When they saw the curate’s red robes, they gave a shout.